I was maybe ten or eleven when I received a Buzz Lightyear figure in my stocking for Christmas.  I played with that thing for months after that.  Buzz was always my favorite growing up.  He was fun and exciting.  He, to me, represented that one toy I always got every single year that out ranked my older ones.  But it was more than that.  Pixar had wisely created a character, that also became a toy, to end all toys.  I saw Buzz not as something or someone but as a constant that no matter what was going on around me, it’ll always be fun and cool to have.

I had Buzz and my little brother has Woody.  We would always make crazy adventures for these toys to go on and spend hours just playing and watching the movies.  We saw both Toy Story movies together in theaters and were always excited about rewatching them over and over again.  Hours went by as we argued about which toy was better.  Chances are he doesn’t remember any of this, him being six at the time, but I remember it fondly.

Now, I think back on that and kind of laugh at the absurdity of my thought process.  To be so emotionally connected to something that has no actually personality or life is somewhat odd for me now.  I’m not saying it’s a good thing, nor am I implying its bad, it just leaves me feeling odd to say the least.  Odd in a way that something happened to me the other day that just took me by surprise.

Wal-Mart is boring as hell.  My little brother had just shipped off to boot camp and Ryan was trying to cheer me up so we went to buy a DVD to watch.  After picking some random $5.00 movie I stumbled into the toys to see what children are playing with these days.  It all consisted of action heroes from cartoons that I’ve never heard of and electronic toys that just required little attention/no imagination.  It was very disconcerting to me to see children not having to imagine anything anymore when everything thing they played with seemed to be spoon fed to them.

That is until I saw the last aisle.

Ryan and I turned the corner and saw all the merchandise for Toy Story 3.  Lego’s, cloth dolls with actual pull strings, slinky dogs, stencils, viewmaster slides and even a train set sat before our eyes as my heart slightly melted.  Ryan and I both paused for a moment and dove in, looking at everything we could.  Sure, it was product tie-in for a major movie franchise owned by a huge greedy company with no respect for the things they make/distribute – Disney, not Pixar – but I didn’t mind.  This was my childhood being brought back.  This was from a time where people would hand us a stuffed animal or an action figure and we’d come up with one-hundred different scenarios for these toys to be in.  That’s the moment I began to really get excited about Toy Story 3.

So, of course, I went to see it with some friends on opening weekend.  And, like everyone on the internet, it knocked the wind out of me at the end.  I cried.  Which isn’t too surprising for anyone my age who grew up with these characters.  Everyone else I know that saw it cried also.  In fact, I’m not sure there was a dry eye in the theater.  When Andy gave away Buzz and Woody to the little girl down the street and played with them one last time it brought me to tears.  To be honest with you I’m not entirely sure why.  Maybe it’s because Andy seemed to be enjoying having one last hoorah with his toys as much as they were.  He was their world and without him they weren’t truly alive.  Sure, they walked around, talked and went on wacky adventures but all of those things was for one person… Andy.  To have Andy give away his toys to someone who would love them as much as he would was touching.  But it wasn’t just that either.  Woody was just as much saying goodbye to Andy also.  He knew he was done in Andy’s life and opted to let him go gracefully and make someone else happy.  It was just really touching and emotionally satisfying.  It was everything I wanted out of the movie.

After the film a friend of mine said something that summed up the movie for me perfectly, “It’s the end of our childhood.”  Just like Andy with his toys, I’ll never be that carefree again or that imaginative.  Hell, sometimes it’s hard for me to suspend my disbelief while watching TV, let alone giving an inanimate object life.  It reminded me of a place that I remembered fondly but can never return to.

Having said all that I’m not sure why I’m writing this.  I guess I’m just sentimental.

It wasn’t until around the age of 18 that I began to eat just about anything.  This began to open up a whole new world (cue the music playing through your head) of food possibilities.  Ironically enough when I began to eat vegetables I began to gain weight.  I’m sure those two aren’t attached at all but it seems that way in my head.  Long story short, I’ll try just about anything… and I mean anything.

Last summer KFC introduced the Double Down.  While sitting at a picnic table at Tecumseh, i was sent a link from The A.V. Club about this travesty of a sandwich.  I was appalled.  I immediately went online to watch the commercial that was airing in two test regions and showed it to everyone I knew in my immediate vicinity (since I lived on a mountain with the same 60 people for 3.5 months, it ended up being just about everyone).  No one knew exactly what to say but I felt the same emotion I had when David Carradine died.  Things were never going to be the same…

Luckily though it wasn’t all over the nation and I was really hoping it would just fail miserably in the test markets.  But, like most things that should have never happened (I’m looking at you 3D craze), everyone embraced it and now it’s fucking everywhere.  I vowed never to eat it, but I knew that deep down inside of me I would eventually have to try it out of pure curiosity.  I had no idea that that day would arrive on April 27th, 2010.  Which finally brings me to my point…

Today I ate the double down.

I sat on the couch and opened the tiny box that sat in front of me.  My eyes locked onto the “meal” as it sat, flaccid and unwelcoming, waiting to be eaten.  The first thing I noticed is that I didn’t, at all, look like the ones in the commercials.  This is what it was supposed to look like.

Intended "Sandwich"

But sadly, this is what I was served from the fine people at KFC…

Actual "Sandwich"

Now, You might not notice the difference because of the terrible picture quality that an iPhone has but the chicken was very light and seemingly soft.  Not crunchy at all like fried chicken is supposed to be.  The cheese was hanging off the side, still unmelted from when they placed it in the middle of the two under fried pieces of breast meat and the bacon was so little it might as well had not been in the “sandwich” at all.

Since this was probably one of the most unappealing things I’d ever seen I decided to just turn on the TV and watch something else as I take my first bite.  My teeth impaled the chicken as I ripped off the first mouthful.  No bacon in the first bite but I could say without the shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined.  That doesn’t mean it’s good by any means, just not terrible.  The chicken was lukewarm as I chewed it, sending the initial taste down the drain as I struggled to finish the first bite.

This wasn’t going to be easy by any means.

I began to eat quicker, trying to finish it without thinking about it.  After all, I did buy it.  I wasn’t about to just throw it away.  More mouthfuls and i finally reached the soft and stringy bacon.  Now, I love crunchy bacon but I only love crunchy bacon.  Any other way to cook bacon can go fuck itself as far as I’m concerned.  At this point I think I was halfway done when I decided to look at the “sandwich” in front of me.  This is what I saw.

Failure

My stomach turned for a moment and my throat got shallow.  What in the fuck am I eating? I thought in disbelief.  This is a new low for me.  I officially feel bad for myself.

I decided to try dipping it in the mashed potatoes in an attempt to drown out the taste of depression that lingered on my tongue.  Surely this would help me get it down without any problems… right?  Well it was going well until the cheese on the “sandwich”, which had already cooled, was considerably colder than the gravy that was dripping off the “sandwich”.  This made for an interesting array of temperatures in my mouth resulting in a gagging reflex.

Now, this was about ten minutes into me trying to eat the Sodom and Gomorrah of sandwiches and i was about to throw in the towel.  The Double Down had officialy beat me.  I couldn’t finish it.  I sat it down onto it’s grease-soaked (it actually was soggy) packaging and called it a day.

Then I remembered what I’d paid for it… $6.99!!!

I wasn’t about to let this “sandwich” go to waste, not when I paid that much for it.  So… I sucked it up and decided to choke the rest of it down.  After about another 5 minutes.  It was gone… All that was left was the greasy remains that I held in my hand during the meal.

Stuck in my colon

I felt awful… I thought about mkaing myself vomit just to get it out of my system but the thought was moot (mainly due to the fact that I didn’t want to move and wasn’t about to vomit on myself while sitting on the couch… that’s just pathetic).  I reached over to my phone and snapped one last picture to sum up exactly the way I felt at that moment.  Luckily enough I was able to capture it before having to lay down.  The “sandwich” wasn’t even okay.  I guess if I had to call it anything, it would be “good”.  Never again Double Down… Never again…

Sadness

I hated that Chevron.  Five days a week I spent standing behind a counter hearing people bitch about pre-pay only pumps.  It’s like they had never filled their tanks up before.  I would tell them it’s pre-pay only.  They would look at me like I had told them to go fuck themselves in Japanese and ask me how exactly they are supposed to do that.  I tell them to prepay with cash or a credit card.  They’ll say they don’t know how much it’ll take.  I’d ask them how much the tank usually holds.  They would give me a number.  I’d tell them to give me that much money.  They would ask to see a manager.
That’s about it.  Out of all the shit that I took, there was one thing that always cheered me up.
Scratch-off tickets.
Those little things always got me excited. Whenever I had nothing to do (which was a significant amount of my shift) I would buy the crossword puzzle scratch-off game and go to town.  I remember one time on a Friday night.  I scratched off a winning two-dollar ticket and slapped it down for the person I worked with.  She cashed it out and handed me the winnings.  I slid the two-dollars into my front pocket.  Suddenly, I had to pee.  Informing her of my newfound sensation, I crossed the store to the restroom.
Lifting the lid I began to pee freely while staring at the messy bathroom in front of me.  Someone had left used toilet paper on floor next to the toilet.
Charming.
After searching the room for other things I had to clean, I glanced to the toilet.  I stared in unbelief, terrified to breathe.  My urine was not a brilliant yellow, or even a murky white.  It was red.  Blood red to be exact.  There was blood in my urine… tons of it.  What exactly does one think in a situation like this?  The answer is simpler than you’d think.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
But your hands begin to involuntarily quiver, as an immediate sweat is broken.  Your heart sounds like the theme to Jumanji while every muscle in your body tightens except for the one you’re staring at.  The legs lock up around the same time as the inarticulate stuttering begins.  Breathing becomes shallow so you grab the handrail next to the toilet to keep your balance.
All while you think of nothing, except the words “blood” and “penis” and how they should never be linked.
I zipped up my pants and ran out of the restroom.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked as I rounded the corner behind the counter.  Looking at my coworker I could only think to say one thing.
“My dick is bleeding.”
She stared in disbelief.  This is the exact time that I felt moisture from down below.  A small, red dot began to rise to the surface of my pants.  I told myself to stay calm and there is no need to overreact.
Of course as I was telling myself that I had already ran out the door and pulled into an intersection.  I instinctively called my girlfriend, Britney and pulled the phone up to my face.  The ringing began and went straight to a voicemail.  Rolling my eyes I left a calm and collected message that went a little something like this.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD CALL ME THE FUCK BACK IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE MY DICK IS BLEEDING AND I’M FLIPPING THE FUCK OUT SO JUST CALL ME BACK WHEN YOU GET THIS BECAUSE I NEED TO GO TO THE FUCKING EMERGENCY ROOM AND I DON’T WANNA GO ALONE DUE TO THE FACT THAT MY FUCKING PENIS IS SPOUTING RED JUICE ALL OVER THE GODDAMN PLACE AND I REALLY NEED YOU RIGHT NOW BABY SERIOUSLY I REALLY FUCKING NEED YOU SO CALL ME BACK IMMEDIALTY SO WE CAN GET MY DICK FIXED.”
…
She never called me back.
…
I hung up the phone and felt a little better but the problem was still pooling in my lap.  I needed to see a doctor and I didn’t want to go alone.  I couldn’t.  There was something wrong with my manhood.  I’ve never been obsessed with my penis or worshipped it but there had never been anything wrong with it either.  This was new territory.
I buckled up tightly and locked the doors.  Pulling onto Euclid Avenue, I spotted my roommate’s car at the Blockbuster on my left.  I didn’t know she worked that day but hell, I was happy to find out.  I opened the door to Blockbuster into the unforgiving lights.  The stain was growing steadily.  My roommate, Jenny, greeted me with a flash of her teeth.  I walked around the counter and the teeth disappeared.
“Oh my god.  What the hell…”
“My dick’s bleeding.”
“Why is your dick bleeding?”
“Can you keep it down?”
“Why is your dick bleeding?”
“I’m not entirely sure but it’s fucking bleeding.”
“You need to go to a hospital.”
“Is it really that hard to talk quietly?”
At that moment a voice was heard behind me asking what was wrong.  I turned to see Chloe.
Now, before we go on, let me tell you something about Chloe.  I had met her through Jenny.  She was a tall, slender, Korean woman with a killer smile.  Even though I had a girlfriend, I had always had a secret crush on Chloe.  This wasn’t anything I ever pursued while dating Britney but I can’t lie and say I never thought about it.
Chloe’s eyes moved South and her mouth opened wide.  At any other moment of my life I would have loved for those actions to happen but not that day.
“OH MY GOD… WHAT HAPPENED?”
“Can we please try to keep it down just a little bit?”
“He said his dick’s bleeding.”
“You’re dick’s bleeding?”
“Look at his pants.  His dick’s definitely bleeding.”
“Girls, I’m not trying to break up the fun or anything but Jenny, I need you to come with me to the ER.”  She started shaking her head no and told me she couldn’t get off work for another two hours.  She then said five words that irked my heart and soul.
“Chloe, why don’t you go?”
Jenny, of course, knew of my crush on her friend and wanted us to begin to date.  This was for two reasons.
1.  She hated my current girlfriend and constantly assured me she was cheating on me.
And
2.  Thought Chloe and I would be perfect together.
Time would prove that she was right about one of those things.
Chloe decided this was a fantastic idea.  She dove into the car and took us to the hospital.
The insurance had taken forever to fill out.  I sat in the chair with Chloe on my side.  She was talking to me as I stared into a wall.  I began to run the many possibilities through my head of what exactly could be wrong with me.  STD?  Maybe they’d have to amputate. Would I have to piss into a catheter if they did?  How often would I have to change those things?  How would I hide it if I were in a show?  Jesus Christ, what about swimming?  No… they won’t have to amputate.  Maybe it’s just a larger problem inside of me.  Yeah, that’s it.  I’m bleeding internally and the blood is finding orifices to escape.
…
Why the hell is that better?
“Mr. Hightower?”  I jumped up and sprang forward.  Chloe told me she would be right there, waiting for me.  I nodded and walked behind the heavy door.  The examinations rooms weren’t rooms at all.  They were compartments shaped by curtains.  Each of them floated about two feet above the ground, betraying its inhabitants.  My heart began to race.
Okay, so what if it’s an STD?  All kinds of bad-asses have had STDs. Freddie Mercury rocked his way through life one ballad at a time.  Of course, he died the day after he announced he had aids.  But that’s neither here nor there.  Al Capone.  There was a badass.  He’s the reason Valentines Day is sometimes associated with the words massacre.  Total badass.  Of course, he died fishing from his balcony, into his pool, while suffering from dementia. Well what about that Libertine guy… you know what?  Never mind.
“This is your room.  The doctor will be with you shortly.”  She pulled the curtain shut.  Almost immediately the curtain opened back up and a wrinkled doctor stepped into the fabric room.  He sat in a chair next to me and told me to sit down.  I did.  He opened his mouth a talked very methodically, as if he weren’t human.
“What’s the problem?”
“My penis seems to be bleeding.”
“Seems or is?”
“Is”
“Well I’m glad we got that cleared up.  Do you ever have any secretions during the day?”
“Like what?”
”White secretions just seeping out.”
“Nope, not that I know of.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah…”
“Son, if we want to diagnose you, we’ll need you to tell us the truth.”
I looked around the empty room.
“We’ll?”
He grimaced at me and wrote something down on his paper.
“When did the bleeding begin?”
“About an hour or so ago.”
“Does it burn when you urinate?”
“Not at all.”
He smiled and shook his head while writing something else down.
“I’m sorry, do you not believe me?”
“Why would I not believe you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Do you ever have unprotected sex?”
“No, I always use protection.”
He was consciously controlling his facial expressions as he wrote something down this time.  Just before I could question him, he spoke.
“Lay down and pull down your pants and underwear”
I pulled my pants off gladly, awaiting a diagnosis.  The blood had officially stopped running and it was dried inside my pants.  My underwear, now attached to my penis through dry blood, ripped away when I pulled down.  I cringed at the sharp shock.  I looked down.  No damage done I suppose.  I laid on the table and the doctor took a long, one-sided q-tip.  He walked over and grabbed my flaccid penis.  He angled it up and brought the q-tip down driving forcibly into my urethra.
It did not go in without a fight.
He let go of the dick and it collapsed to the right.  The stick from the q-tip stuck out about three inches.
Once again, speechless.  I withered on the table.  It didn’t hurt, don’t get me wrong, but it didn’t by any means feel natural.  You know when you get a splinter?  Not the ones that go in immediately and flag your nerves, but the ones that don’t go in all the way?  You know how they just hang there and the sight of something foreign hanging out of your skin is even worse than what it feels like?  Multiply that by a hundred and add a penis.
He ripped it out, which proved to be a worse experience that putting it in.  The end of the q-tip had specks of blood surrounding its head.  I kicked my legs slowly and brought my hands up to my chest.  The doctor had walked out of view.  I opened my mouth which spurred an exchange that I will never forget until the day I die.
“Jesus Christ, I think that was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever felt.”
I heard a latex glove snap on and the oozing sounds of lube being applied.
“I wouldn’t say that just yet.”  He told me to roll over.  I did.  He then stuck his fingers up my ass.  At that moment, I said the first and only thing that popped into my head.
“I’m up for some freaky shit but at least give me a warning.”
For the first time in the night, I heard the doctor genuinely laugh.
“At least you didn’t tell me to buy you dinner first.  I get that like six times a week.”

*AWKWARD SILENCE*

“How often do you do this???”
He pulled his fingers out and threw away his latex glove.
“I have to run some tests on that cotton swab but I believe you have Chlamydia.”
“How do I have Chlamydia?”
“I’m not sure, you might have picked it up.  How many sexual partners have you had?”
“I think three.”
“Well you should probably ask them to get tested because one or all of them have it right now.”
“You said you THINK I have Chlamydia.  What else could it be?”
“I don’t know.  We have to runs some tests but we’ll be in touch in a couple of days.”
“Well do I at least get a prescription?”
“Not until we determine what it is you have.”
“Isn’t Chlamydia easily cured by antibiotics?”
“Yes but we don’t want to put you on anything unnecessary until he find out what you have.”
“So you want me to go home and bleed out for a couple of days?”
“The bleeding has stopped.  We’ll be in touch soon though.  You’re free to go.  Have a good night.”
Without even shaking my hand (oddly enough, this concerned me, despite the fact that just moments before he’d had two fingers two-knuckle deep up my ass), he briskly walked out, throwing the curtain open.  I grabbed my pants and threw them on.  The mere thought of something up my penis made me quake as I walked.  The cheeks from my ass slipped across one another from the left behind lube.  I folded my arms across my chest.  Chloe stood up as I walked out of the examination room.  I walked over and gave her a hug.  She hugged me back.
“Are you all right?  What’d the doctor say?”
“I’ll tell you in the car.  I kinda need to get out of here.”
“Then let me get the car.”  She tried to pull away.
“Not yet, please, just a couple of more seconds.”  She didn’t try to pull away again.  She just held me. I sat silently in her embrace, needing it not to end.  After almost an hour of constant stress, a gentle hug is all I wanted.
We finally let go and she said she’d pull the car up, because I look uncomfortable walking.  I smiled and agreed.  After she walked out I looked around the emergency room.  Someone was bleeding from the head while a family next to them flocked around a small boy holding his arm.  The father was asking him questions.  I spotted a vending machine and decided to get a drink.  Pulling the winning two-dollars out of my pocket I walked past the scared dad.
“How does your arm feel?” he asked.
I put the money in the machine and out came a twelve-ounce Pepsi.  I popped it open and walked back to the door.  Chloe had already pulled the car up and was waiting on me.
“It feels… broken.”  The small boy muttered.
As I walked out of the ER I exhaled, silently agreeing.

My essay ends here but I decided to just fill in what exactly was wrong with me.  After two months of doctor visits and many allergic reactions to the prescribed medications, a single doctor (after another rectal exam) told me I have a prostate infection.  I took some medication for two weeks and all was good.  So that’s that.

JUST STOP READING NOW!

LAZILY WRITTEN BY:  Zack Hightower

This is about to be the single greatest essay you have ever read.  After two sentences your pelvic region will become moist from arousal (told you).  You will never read another essay the same again.  Ever.
…
I smiled at the beautiful woman that just talked to me. We began drinking heavily.  After countless drinks and uninterrupted conversation, she told me how much she loves the song that was playing in the background.  I nodded drunkenly, dreading what was coming.  She, putting her hand on my leg, asked me to dance.  Even drunk, I knew this was a horrible idea.  I can’t dance.  I really, REALLY can’t dance.  When I try, I look like I’m having a seizure while a ferret tries to escape from my pants.
Whoa whoa whoa… a ferret trying to escape from my pants?  That’s a fucking horrible line.  I’m gonna back that up and redo it.
…
Okay, here’s the deal.  I was going to redo it but honestly I got nothing.   Seriously, I have absolutely nothing.  That’s about all the fucking material I have (fucking material not fucking material.  I always have problems with that word).  Jesus, did I even spell check the damn thing?  From here I can easily spot three things wrong with the fucking paragraph.  Oh man… how many times have I used the work “fuck” or any variation on it?  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five and the instance where I said “fuck” as something to look for makes seven.
…
Eight.
…
But this is bad.  I’m writing myself into a corner again.  All right.  Just think of something else and maybe it’ll come to you.
…
A dancing pickle with top hat and cane.  Wow… okay.  That’s not it.
…
OH SHIT!  I got it!  Here goes.  You know why I hate Heroes?  It’s full of characters that you can’t like.  All you want to see is the heroes getting together to unite against one pack of super villains and you don’t get…
…
This is boring.  I bored myself to fucking boredom (nine).  Jesus, am I passionate about anything?  The answer is definitely yes but for some god-awful reason I have nothing to say about those things.  I love movies.  Who gives a rat’s ass.  Wait, is that a question or a statement?  I mean technically I’m sure it’s a question because it begins in the word “who” but I can’t for the life of me see it as a question.  Maybe it’s rhetorical.  Though, I’m sure that someone in the history of mankind has been like, “yeah, I give a rat’s ass.”
But that’s just it isn’t it?  I don’t really give a rat’s ass and don’t really have a story or anything to tell.  Shit.
…
Okay.  I have to come up with something very fucking (ten) fast.  This was due like a week ago.  Alright.  Let’s think about this.
… you know what?  Fuck it.  Just fuck this paper, fuck this writing.  Fuck everything about this fucking piece of shit goddamn cunt of a fucking paper. I’m pissed, I’m really fucking pissed.
You know what pisses me the fuck off?  Bad comic book adaptations.  Indiana Jones and The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull.  Math. Rolly Pollys.  Singing and dancing cowboys.  PCs.  Heroes.  Diet/Caffeine free Mountain Dew.  Drama.  Ice.  The Godfather.  Joey Fatone.  Dancing.  The Jonas Brothers.  The lack of Looney Tunes on TV.  Operas.  Stupid bitches.  People obsessed with certain religions (Scientology?! Fucking really?!)  Alf.  Mean cats.  The show Cats.  Anything about fucking cats (fucking cats, not fucking cats.  Seriously, I haven’t a clue how to use that word correctly).  Brick.  Chain mail.  Cuba Gooding Jr.  Whistling.  Bad comedies.  Bad dramas.  Bad sex.  Windows.  Rain.  Romantic comedies.  Anything written by Paul WS Anderson.  Paul WS Anderson.  Gossip Girls.  90210.  Accordions.  Family Guy.  Oversized sunglasses.  Kroger.  Wal-Mart.  Stalagmites.  Any word I can’t spell.  Sillohettes.  Castanets.  Razors.  Tom & Jerry.  Red Kool-Aid.  Pole-dancing midgets….
…
Whew.  I feel much better.  Now my mind is blank.  Time to end this paper.

*Zack stops typing and walks away from the computer.  He stands solemnly at the window, gazing at the world.   Thinking of his life in front of him, he smiles widely.  There are good things coming his way, he thinks.  He stops what he’s doing and wonders why he thinks in 3rd person.  Shaking this off he goes back to the computer and types one last paragraph.*

I’m emailing this to [THE PROFESSOR].  Fuck greater purpose.  Why does everything have to have a greater fucking purpose?  Why can’t things just… be?  This paper doesn’t have to be about anything.  Seinfeld was about nothing and it was fantastic.  Not that I’m comparing this shit rag to Seinfeld, but really… Why does there have to be a greater purpose?  Can’t something just exist to entertain?  The basis of all writing, theatre, film, and TV is entertainment.  When did it get into a time where we have to just make a point?
…
Fuck it, I got nothing.*

*Twenty-Six.

PS- I’m not even gonna reread this piece of shit.

Meagan.

Now, some of you might be confused on why the hell I’m trying to figure this out.  Well it’s not so much a good story as it is an odd moment.  Jesus Christ, stop setting it up Zack and just say what the hell you’re talking about.

My iPod has been really messed up lately.  When I say messed up, I actually mean broken.  That being said, it’s not stopped me from constantly trying to get it working again.  So I tried rebooting the damn thing.

Nothin’.

I tried simply plugging it in and waiting to see if it would charge.

Nada.

I tried erasing the thing and starting from scratch.  No music is better than no iPod… right?

Zilch.

Frustrated I began checking FAQs online.  Through the hundreds of forums that came up, I managed to find one that wasn’t just a bunch of pricks bitching about girls and MAC products.  This one was actually helpful.  It said maybe I should update my iTunes.  Knowing full well the issue was my iPod, and not my computer, I ditched all logic and decided to give it a shot.

This didn’t take too long.  Quickly my computer restarted and went back to it’s regular ‘Watchmen’ plastered self.  I opened the iTunes and searched for any sign that my iPod had communicated with the mother ship.

Zero Life detected.

But there was one thing I hadn’t noticed before.  Under my music and movies tab, there was one label that was brand spanking new doug.

“Meagan’s Playlist”  I was intrigued.  Who was this Meagan and why is she on my iTunes?

Now, to explain this, we must travel back a couple of months.  When Ryan and I first moved into the slum-house that became a home, our wireless router stopped working all together.  As I began to shop for a new router, I bought one that was entirely too complicated for my own good.  This proved to be both a good and bad thing.  You want me to start with the good or bad?

Since there is absolutely no way I can hear you not reacting to that question, I’ll go ahead and just tell you the bad news first.  AHEM.  The bad news was that I couldn’t set the password on the router due to it’s inability to be used by both a MAC and a PC in the apartment.  It would work on my MAC, but couldn’t even be detected, or searched for, on Ryan’s PC.

So we never set a password for the damn thing.  ANYWAYS*, it’s been months so I never thought about the fact that someone might be actually using my wireless connection.  This is a good thing because it lead to this moment where I spotted…

“Meagan’s Playlist”

Out of pure curiosity I opened the playlist.  After many minutes of loading, it appeared in front of me.  It was around 20 gigs of music all together and began the same exact way as mine did.

Dancing Queen by ABBA.

I nodded in approval and began to scroll through the days and days worth of music.  As the list flew upward I began to notice something that drew my attention.  This girl had wonderful taste in music.  But it even wasn’t like the girl stuff.  She had every Beatles album (if you don’t realize at this point how much I love The Beatles, then you don’t know me( and every Beach Boys album.  She had Dylan, The Darkness, Zeppelin, Floyd, Timberlake, Meat Loaf and The Smiths.  At this point I was impressed and curious of this girl whom eclectically rocked (Thanks to Babz and Josey for making that sentence actual work).

This would have been enough for any normal person to be impressed.  But not so much for me.  It was what came next that surprised me.

You see, I grew up and a very hardcore Christian home and was only allowed to listen to “non-secular” music.  So I listened to DC Talk, Audio Adrenaline, and The OC Supertones (who are oddly featured in Kingpin, the polar fucking opposite of “non-secular”).  She had all of these bands and more Christian music that I remembered but never actually listened to.  It was amazing.

She had Aerosmith, U2, Queen, Rod Stewart, Michael Jackson, The Who and a wide assortment of hair metal.  I was blown away by this music taste.  Mostly because it’s EXACTLY what I listen to.  I’d never heard anyone have such an insane collection of things besides myself.

But a question was brought up at this moment in my mind.  Where the hell is this girl?  She was obviously within 100 feet of my apartment, which, I think, is the range of my wireless Internet.  So she either lives in the house behind me, beside me, or across the street.

It’s not like I expect to have anything happen with this chick.  Nor do I want anything to happen.  I just need to see a damn face to connect with the list.  Maybe this is an obsession, or an odd type of stalking but I have to find this chick.  I have to meet her and I’m not entirely sure why.  I’m intrigued.

I’m desperately seeking Meagan.

*Sorry about the capital ‘ANYWAYS’.  Been reading alot of Chuck Klosterman lately…**

**Sorry again for the ‘*’.  This happened for the same reason.

25 Random Things About Me-

Alright, this is getting out of hand people.  Originally I was on board.  I was interested initially and tried to read them all without missing one, then comment.  It started getting crazy about two weeks ago.  Next thing I know I have (literally, i counted) 23 people tagging me in their 25RTAM notes and I couldn’t read them all.  So, i thought I would write one myself.  I got to six and found that I couldn’t put a spin on it and I’m not gonna do the same-ol-same-ol as everyone else.  Not that there was anything wrong with anyone.  They are interesting and terribly intrusive, just now everyone and their mom (literally, I think my mom is going to do one) are doing it.  Please, for the sake of the internet and everyone on it, if you do one of these facebook-chainmail-clusterfucks please do something different with it.  Take some advice from Powerline, Stand Out.

Speaking of Powerline, I’m wanting to start a tribute group.  Some of you might not have any damn clue who the hell this is.  Your confusion is merited.  Maybe this clip will explain things better.

Maybe that cleared things up.  Or maybe you just watched a three minutes clip of a cartoon from ’95.  Either way, you’ve just experienced the raw power of Powerline.  I need to get this thing off the ground baby.

Theater Conference-

We came to audition.  We did.  They said they didn’t like our scene.  They said we were great in the scene and we had a genuine connection that is hard to find with auditionees (good thing?) but our scene was a poor choice because, and I quote, “the scene brought no characters to a change.”  What the hell?  You want us to get a scene, where a character changes, believably, in under three minutes?  The hell you want from you?  I personally think the judges are smoking pot and judging.  That’s just me though…

Michael Phelps-

Michael Phelps once smoked pot.  Who gives a shit.

Bryan Adams-

Whoa, Summer of ’69 just came on.  Kick ass.

The Revenger’s Tragedy-

We saw this show last night.  It was loosely adapted from an earlier play but that’s neither here nor there.  The show was okay.  The entire thing was produced as if Quentin Tarentino directed and wrote.  Which was interesting to see in a play format but more style than substance when you boil it down.  The script was almost laughable at some points but that was intentional I’m sure.  They were going for a neo-noir type thing and it worked for a while.  Just didn’t do anything for me some reason.

After Party-

Last night we had the after party.  You see, after the passing auditionees are announced, everyone is depressed (And rightly so.  The cut is 193 groups to 32.  Statistically, you won’t make the cut.  Which makes it fun.) and needs a strong drink.  So, they throw a student part at a local bar.  Every year I go, and every year I drink heavily.  This year was no exception.  But the night kept getting more and more ridiculous as it grew later.  This is actually the chain of events as they unfolded.

-Show up at the party.  Flash the ID, get a rum and cola.

-The noise is heard of someone in the crowd saying, “oh shit!” I, being a tiny person, get to high ground to look down and see what’s going on.  Two people are having a movie dance-off.  Everyone is in a circle and cheering on one of two people.  I turn to my friend and tell him that this is ridiculous.

-We get another rum and cola, beginning to relax and go to higher ground again.  If you can’t exactly dance, people watching is always fun when drunk.  At this moment, a guy jumps from the balcony and begins to crowd surf.  Surprisingly, this doesn’t end horribly and it he brought safely to the ground by the surrounding drunk thespians.  I tell my friend that this is almost too ridiculous to even write about.  I tell him people might not believe this part.

-We walk to the bar and get another rum and cola.  We turn around the three chicks, hotter than a super-nova in August, in short skirts and skin tight clothes, actually say the phrase, “Oh my god, a pole.  Why don’t we pole dance girls?”  My friend and I proceed to watch these chicks pole dance for a good five minutes.  I turn to him and simply say, “Yeah, no one is going to believe this.”

The thing is I don’t really understand dancing.  Fuck, sorry.  I messed up.  I need to start a new subject.  Or do I?  No, i suppose I could.  I need to go back and put a transition sentence in but… oh fuck it.  Who cares.

Dancing-

If dancing was a language you could read, I’d be illiterate.  Seriously, I’m an extroverted guy.  People know this.  I have no trouble talking to people or making people laugh (well, that’s not true.  it’s a constant challenge that I usually fail) but I just can’t understand this dancing thing.  So many people are dancing all at once.  It’s the only part of human interaction that I simply don’t get.  Maybe it’s because I can’t dance.  I really can’t.  It’s awful.  I look like I’m trying to get a ferret out of my pants but my feet are trapped to the ground (just try and get a mental picture of that, I challenge you.  First person to draw a picture of that and put it into a comment or email it to zbrokenpoet2@hotmail.com get’s a prize.  Makes sure the subject says CONTEST DRAWING).  I like watching people dance though.  it’s funny what passes for dancing.  I find myself constantly judging other peoples dancing, knowing full well that they are doing things I could never do.

Just like The Revenger’s Tragedy and dancing, it’s easy for me to judge someone’s creative epression.  But I know without a shadow of a doubt that I have no right to do so.  Theya re doing something that I have never been able to do.  Write a play, produce it and make it happen.  Dance the night away without any shred of awareness of what you look like.  I’ve never been able to just do those things (to be fair, I don’t think too many people have done the first one but hell, the second one everyone fucking does).  I dunno.  I feel like a hypocrit judging people’s movies, acting, dancing and all around personality but in reality, at least they went for it.  That’s more than I’ve ever done. It’s admirable.

It’s so easy to judge something when you’re not personally involved.

That’s all.  My computer is dying and I’m out of material.

…

Well, before doing that, what the hell is it about attractive women and Panera bread?  I’m here right now typing because I was hungry but wanted online at the same time and they are fucking everywhere.

…

Alright, seriously, back to the story.  Now… well shit, I can’t remember where I left off.  Hold up, I’m going to pull up the blog and read it.  Here’s the link in case you missed the first action packed segment.

…

Right, okay.  So Kyle and I show up to the house.  This is the childhood home of one of our friends who’s in the Navy now.  His father is somewhat insane.  And when I say somewhat, I mean entirely almost.  The man is weird.  Nice guy, just a little weird.  He liked to do things in his Speedo underwear.  When I say this, I mean entirely and only, in his Speedo underwear.  This wouldn’t be a big deal except he did it openly, in public, while doing his usual chores around the house.

SO, Kyle and I park across the street and find an abandoned lot to set up the tripod up.  He position ourselves behinds some tall weeds, stupidly thinking that it would protect us from the Kane’s discovering gaze.  When I say we are behind weeds, I actually mean like three of them.  Three thin, light brown weeds.

It was the perfect hiding place.

We glance at the house, planting the camera firmly on the tripod.  Asking Kyle what time it was, he looked down and told me we have fifteen minutes.  Really we had less than that.  You see, one of the things about Kane was the fact that he was always early or on time.  Something told me he would be early, seeing how he believed he had severely fucked over Steve Buscemi.  I looked at Kyle and told him he should hand me the spare tapes, just in case the other one is full at the very moment things went from funny, to completely hilarious.

Kyle handed me the tape and I looked into the viewfinder to check the battery life and saw movement on the screen.  Kyle hit me on the shoulder and we both spotted Navy man’s father, in his Speedo, getting his riding lawn mower out of the garage.

Kyle: Holy fuck… the hell are we gonna do?

Zack: Hold up, this is good stuff, let’s think about this for a minute.

Kyle: Kane is showing up mow Mr. Buscemi’s lawn, but Mike is mowing it, right now, in a Speedo.

Zack:  You think he has more than one of those or does he just have the one?

Kyle: Mower?

Zack: No Speedo.

Kyle:  Probably the one.

Zack: That would be my vote.

Kyle: I GOT IT!

Kyle yanked out his phone and dialed Kane’s number.  This was a fine decision, except for one problem… He didn’t dial *67.

MISTAKE #1

Kyle:  Hello, Mr. Johnston?  Yes, where are you?  About three miles away huh?  Well, I have a small problem.  My sister’s autistic brother…  (pause)  Yeah, I suppose he’s my brother also… Is out mowing the lawn.  He doesn’t need to be doing this.  Last time he did, he almost cut off both his feet and his nose.  So, I’m gonna have to have you go over to him and say, “Billy, you go on back inside and I’ll mow this lawn for ya.”  Alright, thanks Mr. Johnston.  Billy will pay you when you’re done.

Mistake #2

Kyle hung up the phone and threw it into his pocket.  This was going to be glorious and Kyle and I jumped with anticipation to the prank that we meticulously planned.

“Billy” Buscemi fired up his riding mower and sat his Speedo ass down on the top of it.  He began t drive around, finding a good starting position.  Right about this time, we see Kane pulling up from the end of the street.  We push record and the prank was on.

Kane’s brown truck was huge.  Bigger than anything I’d ever driven and it pulled an even bigger trailer behind it.  On this trailer was a riding mower, push mower, two weed eaters, extra gas and trimmers for bushes.  At least I remember that way.  I could be wrong.  He pulls his truck around and backs into the drive-way.  At this point, “Billy” has spotted the landscaping service pulling into his driveway and has shut off the mower.  He stands up on the foot rest of the mowed, but unfortunately for all of us, still straddling the poor thing.  Kane get’s out of the truck and walks to the back of his truck.  He pulls open the trailer end and lays it on the ground.

“Billy” has the most confused look on his face.  He scratches his stomach, staring at the strange boy.  Kane walks right over to “Billy” and says, quite possibly, one of my favorite sentences I’ve ever heard.

Kane:  Now Billy, Mr. Buscemi told me to tell you to go back inside and I’ll mow your lawn.

“Billy” sat there for a moment, contemplating the order that was delivered to him.  He stands up, Speedo glistening in the sun, and says, “Who the hell do you think you are?  My name isn’t Billy!  My names Mike Mullins and I’ve lived here for 23 years!”

Now, at this point, things got loud, but so did the wind.  Kyle and I were laughing so hard that we couldn’t see what was entirely going on, but we could hear them quite well.  But not now.  The roar of the wind between the trees behind us and the continuing laughter muffled the dialogue but they were screaming.  Then there was an odd silence that permeated the air.  The screaming had stopped.

Kyle and I traded confused looks and sat up.  They were both talking to each other.  At that very moment, the tape beeping started and I knew we were almost out of tape.  Kyle ducked back down and I slipped a new tape out of the bag.  I opened the tape deck and replaced the old old.  Turning on the camera, the viewfinder flashed back on.  Kyle and I peered into the viewfinder, from the safety of three weeds.  The tape finally got to the beginning and the viewfinder flashed on.  Now, as we looked into it, we expected to see a could of things.

1.  We expected to see Kane and “Billy” screaming at each other.

2.  We expected to see Kane angrily getting into his truck and driving away.

3.  We expected to see “Billy” continuing to mow.

But, what we didn’t expect to see was Kane and “Billy” staring directly into the camera from across the street, with “Billy” pointing in our general direction.

Kyle:  FUCK… YOU THINK THEY SEE US?

Kane:  HEY YOU!

Zack:  I think he saw us!

We grabbed the tripod, folded it up and ran for our lives.  Kyle grabbed the bags with us and we sprinted behind some house.  I looked behind me and saw Kane walking intensely toward us.  He wasn’t going to run.  He didn’t need to.  We were terrified as is.  After crossing five backyards, we leaned against the side of a house, out of breathe, and out of houses.  In front of us was a street.  There was nothing else to hide from.

Kyle: HOLY SHIT, KANE’S GONNA KILL US.

Zack:  The fuck are we gonna do?

Kyle: Run and never stop.

Zack:  We’re smokers, we’re gonna have to stop eventually.

Kyle:  I can’t believe “Billy” sold us out.

Zack:  Really?  We called him autistic.

Kyle:  We DID call him autistic.

Zack:  Is Kane around the corner?  He’s gotta be almost here.

Kyle stuck his head around the corner and froze.  He slowly came around.

Kyle:  He’s gone.

Zack:  What?

Kyle:  He’s gone, check on your side.

I looked around my side.  Kane was angrily and slowly walking toward us from the other side.

Zack:  Dude, he’s right here!

Kyle:  HE’S A FUCKING TERMINATOR!

We then ran back around the opposite side and dove into our car.  Driving away as fast as we could, I could see Kane just sitting in the middle of the street.  We began to laugh and drove away happily.  We had gotten away.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER

Kane immediately left after having a discussion with “Billy”.  We waited, in the adjacent street and drove over when Kane left.  “Billy” or Mike was standing outside in the front lawn, drinking a beer.  We walked up to Mike and asked him what that whole thing was about.  He told us that this kid showed up to mow his lawn and he had been set up by two guys who were across the street.  Kyle and I both knew at the same moment, they ahd no idea who did this.  Neither of them must not have gotten a good look at us.  It was fantastic.  The Mike dropped a bombshell.

Mike:  Well, i told him to go to the police because if I’m right, this is terristic threatening.

Kyle and I both sat in silence.

Kyle:  Uhh Mike, you what?

Zack:  You sent him to the police.

Mike:  Yeah, he told me that this guy told him he was going to kill him on the phone.

Mistake #3

Kyle:  Yeah, but how are they going to track him down, I mean it’s not like he has a number.

Mike:  Last time he called it wasn’t UNAVALIABLE.  Looks like he messed up.  Those cops will get him.

We barely heard the last part because Kyle and I were running to the car.

Kyle:  We have to call Kane before he goes to the cops.

Zack:  I can’t beleive you didn’t hide your fucking number.

Kyle:  You wanna call him or me?

Zack:  You’re the one who fucked up, you do it.

Kyle:  FUCK!  Alright.

I don’t remember the actual conversation but once Kane answered the phone, we told him it was us and he greeted us cheeringly.  He had no idea who had set him up.  We finally told him Mr. Buscemi was us and apologized profusly.  He told us he could sue us and was so angry that he hung up the phone.

It’s been almost five years and he, to this day, won’t forgive us.  I can’t really say I blame him.  Though, Kyle and I did cover our tracks.  We recorded over the footage of the prank with us interviewing people from our high school.

I do feel really bad about all of this.  I’ve actually tried analogizing on two separate occasions.  First was over the phone and he told me he would call me back if he forgave me.  It’s been four years, i don’t believe I’ll be receiving that call.  The second time was at a gas station and I said I’m sorry again.  He just looked at me and walked away.  The thing is I am sorry.  We wasted his time, money and gas.  We really fucked his over, though, I’m not sure what exactly we thought would have happened.  Either way, Kane, if you’re reading this (and you’re not) I’m sorry man.  I really am.

…

It was pretty fucking funny though.

Right after high school, Kyle and I didn’t have jobs.  We were lazy ass bums, if you will.  It always consisted of us renting the worst movie we could find and stay up all night, just watching them and laughing our asses off.  So, naturally, we wanted some excitement in our lives.  Something to do.  This is when we decided to begin prank-calling people.  This is what lead to not only the longest drawn-out, but best prank we have ever pulled on anyone.  It’s an event that Kyle and I fearfully call Kanegate.

Kane Johnston was probably the nicest guy you would ever meet.  He would help you in the halls, he would lend you money in a heartbeat and he was a hard worker.  He had his own landscaping business (at least I believe it was landscaping…. I know for a fact he mowed lawns) and he ran that thing like it was Microsoft.  The thing you have to remember about him is that he was so completely trusting and really old at heart.  If there was any proof that reincarnation existed, Kane would be it.  He was an old man stuck in a 18 year old body.  Both Kyle and I had always been great friends with Kane.  See, the man didn’t have a mean bone in his body and literally everyone liked the guy.  So why exactly did Kyle and I decide to play a prank on him?

We were hanging out at Kyle’s bored off our ass.  Beating Super Mario Bros. for the umpteenth time this summer had lost it’s flavor.  I needed a new taste.  I was looking through my phone to see if we could call anyone we knew to hang when I got over to Kane’s name.  I hesitated on it for a moment.  See, we’d never hung out with Kane outside of high school.  I decided to give him a call anyways and I told Kyle.  He immediately told me to hang up.  We discussed it over many obscenities and decided the best thing to do was the prank call him.  I dialed *67 and the phone begin to ring.  He picked up…

Kane:  Hello?

I hid my voice through a heavy country accent.

Zack:  Hello?  Is this Kane Johnston?

Kane:  Yes sir it is.  Who am I speaking to?

I wasn’t ready for this.  I pulled out the first name that I could think of off the top of my head.

Zack:  My name’s Steve Buscemi.

Kyle began to laugh in the background, muffling the sound with a pillow. I thought it was over right then, but alas, Kane was a trusting sort.

Kane:  How you doing Mr. Buscemi?

Mr. Buscemi:  I’m good, I’m calling you in regards of your ad.

Kane:  Oh yeah!  Are you the man down the road I talk to about mowing his property the other day?

I stopped.  This was entirely too good to pass up.

Mr. Buscemi:  Why yes I am Mr. Johnston.

Kane:  Well, when did you want me to mow your lawn?

Holy shit!  Holy shit!  This is too fucking good to be true! I thought.  I looked at Kyle and he looked at a calendar.  He pointed to Saturday.

Mr. Buscemi:  Now Saturday would be good but we’re leaving real early in the morning so you’re gonna have to mow it before we leave.

Kane:  Well, I could be there about 4 AM if you’d like.

Mr. Buscemi:  That sounds good.  I’ll tell you what though, my son likes to sleep in so don’t come to the door.  You just start mowing and come to the door after.  We don’t wanna wake him up.

Kane:  Well won’t the sound of the mower wake up your son-

Mr. Buscemi: -Just start mowing.

Kane:  Yes sir.  See you on Saturday!

I hung up the phone and laughed hysterically.  Not only did we not intend on playing a prank on him, but he practically handed it to us on a silver platter.  Kyle and I laughed more, then went and got some Taco Bell.  It was a Monday and we soon forgot all about Kane and the prank.

ONE WEEK LATER

We were outside smoking cigarettes in the warm summer.  A slight breeze kept the temperature at the right place so we wouldn’t sweat.  It was wonderful.  Between cigarette number one and two, we began to talking about not being in high school anymore (which is a common thing among recent graduates.) and we got on the subject of Kane.  We both sat up immediately.

Kyle:  Holy shit, it’s Tuesday.  You think you Kane actually went to that house and mowed?

Zack:  I dunno, we should call him and see if he showed up.

Kyle:  I’ll call him.

Zack:  What?  You can’t call him, I’m Mr. Buscemi, remember?

Kyle:  Dude, it’s been like a week or something.  You really think he’s gonna remember the voice?  Besides, I can do a redneck accent just as good as you.

Zack:  Whatever, just make sure you hide the number.

Kyle begins to dial with *67 before it.  He puts it on speakerphone.  It begins to ring.  We sit in anticipation.  About thirty seconds go by and his voice mail picks up.  I motion to Kyle to hang up and he flicks me off.  We both heard the tone on the other end and Kyle began to record his message.

Mr. Buscemi:  Now you listen here Mr. Johnston.  This is Mr. Buscemi.  I stayed with my family for hours and hours after we were supposed to leave and you didn’t show up.  We waited for you goddammit.  Who the hell do you think you are standing us up like that?  Jesus Christ boy, you’re pissing me off.  I want you to call me back and I want you to apologize to me for wasting my time.  If you don’t.  I’m… I’m gonna kill ya.

End call.

Kyle began to laugh.  I laughed.  Why?  Because it is so ridiculous that someone would threaten someone’s life like that over a lawn.  But, it was too late.  He had sent the message.  We lit up another cigarette and smoked the afternoon away.  Now, we could have easily left it at that.  He had literally no idea who had called him and obviously had never watched any film made in the ’90s so we were off the hook.  But, of course, we didn’t stop there.  We had other plans up our sleeve.

THREE DAYS LATER

Curious about the quickly evolving Kane affair, Kyle and I decided to call him.  Kyle picked up the phone and dialed *67.  It began to ring and Kane answered.

Kane:  Hello?

Kyle:  Mr. Johnston?  This is Steve Buscemi.

Kane:  Mr. Buscemi, I don’t really appreciate the message you left me.  It was disrespectful and, quite frankly made me pretty angry.

Mr. Buscemi:  Well, I’m sorry about that.  See, Mr. Johnston, that wasn’t me, that was my son, Bobby.

Kane:  What?

Mr. Buscemi:  Well, Bobby has quite a temper about him and over-reacts sometimes.  I’m sure he didn’t say anything too terrible, did he?

Kane:  He told me he was gonna kill me.

Mr. Buscemi:  Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.  But I’ll tell you what, I’m gonna get Bobby on the phone and apologize to you.  Is that alright?

Kane:  That would be great.

Mr. Buscemi:  Alright, hold on.  I’m gonna put you on hold.

Kyle immediately switched over to the other line on his cell phone and told me to take mine out.  He three way called me and when I connected to his, he switched back over.  Why exactly didn’t we just hand the phone back and forth to each other?  The answer is a simple one.

It wasn’t wacky enough.

Mr. Buscemi: Now Bobby, I think you have something you want to say to Mr. Johnston.

I used the smallest, mousiest voice I could possibly muster.

Bobby Buscemi:  I don’t wanna dad…

Mr. Buscemi:  Now you listen to me you little shit… You have not only wasted my time, but Mr. Johnston’s time and you will apologize or so help me god, I’ll hit you again.

Kane: Now Mr. Buscemi… If he doesn’t wanna say he’s sorry…

Mr. Buscemi:  Now will all do respect Mr. Johnston… Don’t tell me how to raise my son.

Kane:  I apologize Mr. Buscemi.

Mr. Buscemi:  See?  Mr. Johnston apologized to me, why can’t you apologize to him, Bobby?

Bobby Buscemi:  I’m not gonna apologize because he didn’t show up and mow our lawn.

Kane:  Actually I did.

Kyle and I look at each other and cover our mouth with laughter.

Kane:  I mowed every acre of your land.  Took me three hours.  When I got done I went to the door and knocked and nobody was home.  I was so mad.  I loaded up my mower and drove home.

At this point, Kyle and I have actually muted the mics on our phones because we are laughing out loud, uncontrollably.  We both knew what was gonna happen next but neither of us said it.

It was time to take this to a new level.

Mr. Buscemi:  Now, Bobby, did you hear that?  Now you apologize to Mr. Johnston because out of the goodness of his heart, mowed the wrong lawn.

Bobby Buscemi:  I’m sorry Mr. Johnston.

A very, VERY, long pause.

Kane:  I forgive you Bobby.

Mr. Buscemi:  See?  Now that wasn’t that hard, was it?  Now you get back in your cage now.

I hung up the phone and laughed more.  I could not believe that Kane was buying all of this.  Surely the fact that he mowed an entire lawn and didnt get paid would have set him off.  Or the fact that we were using the name of a fairly famous actor would make him wise to the situation.  Or maybe it’s because Mr. Buscemi apparently keeps his son, Bobby, in a cage when he’s not on the phone.  Any of those reasons we equate to the situation being ENTIRELY unbelievable for absolutely anyone… right?

Wrong.

Mr. Buscemi:  Now, I’m real sorry about my son Mr. Johnston and sorry you mowed the wrong lawn.

Kane:  Well, that’s alright.  It must’ve been just a misunderstanding.

Mr. Buscemi:  I’ll tell you what.  How about a second chance at mowing a lawn for me?

I looked at Kyle, confused on where this was going.  He gave me that, “trust me” look he has and went back to the phone.

Kane: Well, I think that would be great, seeing how I didn’t get paid for the first.

Mr. Buscemi:  Alright.  I need you to mow my sister’s lawn.  It’s located at 137 Sturbridge Crt in Georgetown.

Kane:  When do you want me to mow it?

Mr. Buscemi:  Hold up, let me check the calender.

Kyle mutes the phone and asks me if I have anything to do on Friday morning.  I told him no.  He turns the phone back on.

Mr. Buscemi:  How about Friday morning around 10?

Kane:  Sounds good.

Mr. Buscemi:  Alright, I’ll see you then.

End call.

Kyle buried his phone in his pocket and looked at me.  I asked him whose address did he give him.  He said our friend Daniel Mullin’s.  I asked him why wanted to know if I was free on Friday.  He told me because we’re going to hide and film the prank.  We both laughed out loud at the thought of us filming our prank.

But of course, things never go as planned, and soon the prank spun wildly out of control…

]]> http://zackhightower.wordpress.com/2008/12/24/retro-blogs-kanegate-part-one/feed/ 1 Zack http://zackhightower.wordpress.com/2008/12/20/creating-nothing-into-nothing/ http://zackhightower.wordpress.com/2008/12/20/creating-nothing-into-nothing/#comments Sat, 20 Dec 2008 09:15:11 +0000 Zack http://zackhightower.wordpress.com/?p=237 ]]> I feel like writing a new blog, knowing, of course, I don’t really have anything to write about.  See, usually I write about my life and the “adventures” I go through (which in reality, are nothing that big/interesting.  I only make this larger than life in my writing to try and emulate how I perceive them).  The thing is I feel this rather large part of me, begging to me put literally anything down on paper.  Which, I’m trying to do right now.  I’m trying to make something out of nothing and wondering if I’ll succeed.

This will be a blog where I don’t get many comments.  Mostly because when it is done, I would have not said one damn thing about my life, or the life of others.  I would not have said anything interesting or slightly “honest” as most people have said.  I would have simply been ranting on my blog about how I have no ideas and how this is the first damn thing that came out of my life.

Ultimately though, I would like to come to some big ending that not only wraps up what I’m saying but makes it a part of the canon.  Something that is completely self-contained but still creates somewhat of a big picture in the grand scheme of things (I said the same damn thing twice in that sentence and no doubt people will see that.  Hell, maybe they’ll comment on that).

The only thing standing in my way is that I simply have nothing to talk about.  Yeah, some fun shit has happened to me lately but there wasn’t a punchline.  There wasn’t something that made the whole experience relevant.  I would write about it and I would get to the inevitable part where I would need to wrap it up and it would always end with me just going, “then I went to bed.”

END OF BLOG

My roommate is watching a rerun of ’30 Rock’ while he eats some oatmeal that sounds and smells absolutely fantastic.  I love this episode, it’s the one where Liz goes to her high-school reunion and Jack tags along.  It’s arguably my favorite episode and the funniest.  It has a great bit in it where the actors in the show keep getting upstaged by the page while they are in the elevator.  It’s hilarious how they react to their “power getting taken away.”  That’s great, if there is one thing this show captures, it’s how actor consciously or subconsciously react to someone taking the attention away from them.

I’ll be the first to admit, I do feel threatened when the attention is taken away from me.  Maybe that’s why I do this blog.  I dunno, all I know is that good or bad, I’m not ashamed to say this.  Call me egotistical.  I don’t feel this way by choice.  It literally just happens.    I’m not proud of it, I’m just not scared to point out the MULTIPLE faults I have.  If I point it out before everyone else does, it isn’t such a big deal…

I’m working on it.

The thing is (how many fucking times have I said that phrase?) I have been fairly depressed over the last couple of days because of this and that event.  I linked them because honestly, i don’t wanna be repetitive and just say the damn things over and over again.  If you’ve read them, that’s great, if you haven’t, then you ain’t missing too much.  You just need to know I’m depressed.  Well, kinda depressed.

Anyways, as i sit here, I realize that I’ve been so damn bummed out over this girl that I have completely failed to notice that I’m out of school for the semester and I have some good times ahead of me (that sentence was entirely too long and grammatically incorrect).  Jesus, I don’t know where I’m going with this…

Ryan is finished eating his oatmeal and sitting in the recliner, finishing out the episode.  I keep typing but can’t exactly keep my attention.  Jesus… this blog is a failure isn’t it?  It’s barely over 700 words and hasn’t made a greater point.  But does it need to?  Why does everything have to have a climax to be interesting?  In a way, it has to.  That’s what keeps things going, knowing that it’s leading to something that will make it all relevant… right?  How many times have you seen a movie or a play where the outcome just fails in comparison to the rest of the feature?  Pretty often if you’ve seen a Paul WS Anderson film but can something still be good and just continue to go on?  Hell, I don’t think so, in fact, I know so.  It’s probably because I like things that get wrapped up.  This isn’t one of those things though.  Everything is brought up but with no solution.

Shit, I dunno why I’m ranting like this.  Makes me feel better I guess.

…

I’m going to bed.